The Fine Similarity
by Novalia1001
Summary: In an ungodly hour of morn, Stork finds himself waiting for dawn with an unlikely guest: Radarr.


The Fine Similarity

On autopilot, the state of the Condor was less turbulent, and Stork relished in it as he always did at these infrequent pauses; simply unable to avoid the death canons from Snipe's graceless warship simply because it _wasn't there_ was an almost unbearable weight lifted from his lanky shoulders.

And then he found fascination that the helm was quiet: none of Aerrow's pacing, Pipers scribbling, Finn's incessant noise-making through fantastic means, or Junko's being which was, usually muted, gentle and benevolent, but—suppressing a shiver—Stork couldn't help but think that old habits die hard. Haunted by insomnia, the Merb paced the dark corridors of the Condor.

And what a magnificent carrier the Condor was! She was beautiful—Stork never failed to express that much—though he couldn't dare _begin_ as to _how_ much as it demolished his usual dark and realistic demeanor that the others regarded as paranoia. Still, he was content to keep such thoughts within himself, running his fingers along the cold exterior of his baby that he had nursed to health one way or another, and never once took her for granted.

He was probably the only one who saw the Condor as he did…as a ship _unmistakably_, and yet, more than that: their home, his island of sanity, calm and Zen during his refuge in the Wastelands, and that was what she continued to be. He was in love, and he relished in this quiet time with her.

On the helm, however, he was not alone. Starlight streamed onto the floor as silver-white impalpable blocks, and the ghostly images of clouds drifted by lethargically like deformed shadows of sheep. There was no clicking in the pipes crisscrossed in the roof and walls of the bridge, no hiss of leaking gas—steam, whatever pressure fault that his baby might be suffering under. So what was this sensation that there was another here? Not so much that he was being watched, but that he was capable of doing the watching?

Was this presence atomic-oxygen ogres descended from the highest layers of the atmosphere to find an energy source to feed off of: their most common taste from living flesh?

Or quite plausibly, tropo-worms capable of multiplying and devouring his beloved Condor and anything metallic within days?

Could it be that they had been misrouted? That they again found themselves in the lair of the Sky Siren?

With his shoulder hunched until the strain made him tremble, Stork padded forward, ignoring the cold of the helm, the eerie silence that he usually found homey though incomparable to the pipe-works running through the sub-terrain of Cyclonia. Quietly, quietly…step, step, step

Stork shrieked abruptly before he could stop himself, and his companion whom he had startled jumped out of his skin and into a defensive crouch. Radarr, fur still on end and cardiac arrest impending, paused once he recognized Stork's form. Annoyed at the disturbance but tolerant of another Storm Hawk's presence, the sky-lemur-hybrid resumed his seated position on the terrace open to the outside.

"Radarr," Stork's voice still trembled as he regained possession over his over-active impulses taking too long to recognize the no-need for adrenaline. He dreaded that he would need much of that for tomorrow's repeating near death experiences.

"What are you doing up?"

Radarr cast him a flat look, but tiredly shrugged, glancing towards the awe-striking void of sky. Accepting it as passivity if not an invitation, Stork seated himself, letting his feet dangle through the rods of the railing.

"Nice…evening, huh?" Stork made a poor attempt at a conversation.

Radarr scratched behind his ear as he made a compliant sound.

Stork wasn't one who favoured "moments" with others, though in one extremely odd fashion or another he had, and noticed that he never really knew Radarr. Should he have? Stork dismissed the thought. Like the others, Radarr was multi-talented, a fine fighter, a good hands-on mechanic from tinkering with the skimmers repeatedly…as they _all_ did eventually, and was without a doubt an excellent Storm Hawk.

But what really went on in the little critter's mind?

There were times when he and Radarr didn't see eye to eye, and only to name a few: Stork had volunteered him for a lab test, Radarr had used the towel about his waist—the only garment he had on—to bind a burst pipe…and there had been little fits of tension between them, nothing more than a glance, a growl, perhaps a disapproving nod of the head or skeptical glance, but did that define friendship? Companionship? Was it simply acquaintance?

Who was Stork to determine that—what was he doing considering it? He never viewed Radarr in a negative light, and as much as another Storm Hawk, he had trusted him in the heat of battle (be it the card game to maneuver Finn and Junko out, or in the more practical aerial tactics that everyone was involved in) and that was bound to suffice.

Shouldn't it?

There was no psychological illness associated with friends so far as _he_ had heard off—not including Piper's temporary alliance with Lark that had infected her with Azerian laughing fever—and he tucked it away in the back of his mind to research that later, suppressing a shudder.

Such thoughts reminded him of when Radarr was cloaked, and why. No-one had believed him, had they? Or at least, their focus was concentrated on the wrong person. Much like Mister Cheepers from the Black Gorge, or the dragons on Sky's End…

The eureka moment was not the bright bulb that it was described to be, but Stork still felt it, and gave a strange smile.

"We're quite a bit alike, aren't we?" he said quite suddenly.

Radarr didn't reply at once, but he did smirk. The silence that lapsed thereafter wasn't as…unsettling.

Then a light shuffle came from behind and they flinched again, slowly relaxing when Finn stepped into the light.

Awkwardly breaking the silence, the sharpshooter rubbed the back of his head and said tiredly, "Nice…evening, huh?"

Stork smirked, glancing at a half grinning Radarr. "I suppose."

_Author's Note: _I've been told that "writer's block" is only when you start making a profit from the writing that you do due to economic pressures, emotional stress and the like. In that case, in the effort to rid what is-or-is-not-writer's-block from my head, I produced this one-shot. Of course, you're always free to drop your comments…(hint, hint, nudge, nudge).


End file.
